


Gunshot

by VeryLateTrash



Category: Phantom of the Opera
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Death, Cute, F/M, Love, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 03:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13379340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryLateTrash/pseuds/VeryLateTrash
Summary: What do you hear in the cold, waking hours? A single gunshot? One that changed the lives of everyone Christine knew? To Erik, this gunshot is like the smashing of a bottle. One that had surely had alcohol in it, at one point in time. One that surely belongs to a Raoul de Chagny.





	Gunshot

*Boom!* The echo of the single shot that ended Christine's life is one that will forever ring though the minds of everyone that had witnessed it.  
Meg heard it every time she walked out on stage. When her song started, she would hear the first note and it would be the shot. She would always wobble just a bit because of that, but the notes would soon take over again and she would be fine. She was alive; she was healthy; her charges were dismissed. The gunshot always blows over. Like the waves in the sea that she so loved to emerge herself in.  
Madam Giry heard it, too. For her, it was the sound of all the days of practice she spent, desperate to get her daughter as good a performer she could be. The shot was the incarnated stress she put onto Meg and herself. It was days of calling out orders to her daughter, to the backup dancers, to the stagehands. Then, it was yelling internally at herself for all the pressure she put Meg under. Internal screaming at the Phantom for existing.  
For Gustave, it was life without his mother. When he woke up, it wasn't to Christine's sweet voice telling him breakfast was ready for him. "Get dressed, Gustave, and then we'll go about the town." He would always jump right out of bed and into her waiting arms. Despite her (joking) protests, she would always end up carrying him to his spot at their table, and give him a light kiss on the nose before giving him some food. If he were lucky, it'd be a big, ripe orange. Instead, Gustave is woken up by one of two deeper voices. It depended on the day as to who would wake him up and take care of him. He would hear the gunshot in his dreams, and wake up, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment longer, hoping that today would be the day his mother came back, but when he opened them, he would see either one of two people. Neither of which was his mother.  
For Raoul, the gunshot was the organ he heard often played in his parlor. Delicate, long fingers creating music that his wife would sing along to, once upon a time. On a good day, Raoul would tell himself to enjoy the music. Just sit, have a cup of tea, and relax. Wake Gustave up later. Just take a moment to think. On a bad day, Raoul would ask Erik to stop playing. "Would you wake up Gustave?" And, Raoul would stay in his room for a while. The music reminded him too much of her.  
For Erik, the gunshot was the smashing of a piece of glassware against a wall. Erik remembered that night. It was the night after Christine was buried. They had watched, shivering as snow drifted down upon them, as Christine's coffin was lowered into a six foot hole next to her father's grave.  
Erik had looked over, eyes shifting from one person to the next in their small group. He couldn't manage to look at Meg and Antoinette for too long a time. He had somehow looked passed what Meg did to Christine and their relationship, not pressing charges and telling the police it was an accident, but he couldn't, in any form, respect her after what she did. As for Antoinette, Madam Giry, the woman who practically raised him...He wasn't sure how to feel about her, anymore. The two were comforting each other. Meg was in shambles, and Madam Giry was holding herself together.  
Erik's eyes shifted to Raoul. The small blonde was shivering in his rather impractical suit. Erik had to roll his eyes at the sight. Of course, Raoul was sobbing. Tears were streaming down his cheeks faster than Erik could say, 'Arpegio.' Raoul bit his lip, "Don't look at me, Monsieur."  
Erik had to respect that, and he shifted his eyes to his son. Gustave was shivering, as well. Erik sighed, taking off his cloak and placing it around the shoulders of his child. It was much too large, on account of Erik's incredible height, and trailed off into the snow. Gustave was too young to fully understand what was happening. His mother was dead. How can a child grasp that, really? Gustave held his arms out, eyes glued on Erik's, who gently picked him up on request.  
Erik was trying to maintain composure. It was a difficult concept to grasp. The composer, engineer, architect, musician of all sorts, poet, and a thousand other things that Erik had mastered in his solitude, unable to grasp this.  
Antoinette and Meg left first. Erik paid them no mind, while Raoul bid them a soft adieu.  
Erik and Raoul's eyes connected for a moment, then Raoul broke the contact, "We should leave. No point in Gustave getting a c-cold." Erik heard the waver in Raoul's voice as he turned away. They took a carriage to Raoul's place, a small manor that he'd inherited from his parents' passing.  
Erik wasn't sure whether it was because he was still holding Gustave, or for some other unknown variable, but Raoul decided to let him stay with him, "I suppose Gustave needs his father," was his only statement on the topic.  
That night had been utterly difficult.  
The gunshot noise enters here. After Gustave was long since asleep. In the middle of the night, Erik was sitting in a chair in the parlor. He was considering what a nice place this was. Of course, this made sense. Raoul being the little vicomte he was.  
Erik's thoughts were interrupted when he heard it. The glass smashing against the wall. The noise permeated through the still house; the sound of shattering rung through Erik's ears. Erik stood, briskly making his way toward the source of the sound. Raoul's room. The door was slightly ajar.  
Erik barely touched it, and it creaked open. He saw, though it was dark, Raoul hunched over at the end of his bed. The man had been a heavy drinker for so long while he and Christine lived in France, and it seems old habits die hard. Erik said, "You shouldn't be so loud; your son is sleeping, you know?"  
Raoul looked up at Erik, eyes red and puffy, a bottle of something Erik assumed was alcoholic in his hand, "What kind of cruel joke do you intend to place on me now, Monsieur?" Erik could hear the slur in his voice.  
After all the years of hatred Erik convinced himself he held for Raoul, he couldn't seem to harbor it now. With a sigh, he crossed the room to Raoul, "Ah, little Vicomte, this habit needs to be done away with."  
Raoul started sniffling, or perhaps he had always been crying and Erik hadn't noticed it, "Monsieur, do leave me. I'm in no state to match wits with you."  
Erik clasped his hands behind his back, "And, nor do I expect you to." Erik bent down to begin picking up the bottles that Raoul had drained. He sighed at the broken glass; a result of the loud noise from before, no doubt.  
Erik was swift at cleaning the mess. The bottles, anyway. Cleaning up the mess that *was* Raoul would prove to be more difficult. Erik had to push away all the negative emotions he had about this pathetic man. He extended a hand out to Raoul, "Get up."  
Raoul was pathetically drunk. The man never could get too angry. One would expect a sailor to be able to spit up some curses, but the vicomte was too sad to. He sighed, "Just let me rot, Monsieur."  
A flash of frustration lit up Erik's eyes, "Vicomte, you need to get up. Go to bed. You have a son to take care of."  
Raoul moaned pitifully, "Gustave isn't mine. He's demonstrated your music -hic- skills."  
Erik said dryly, "Very eloquent, de Chagny."  
Raoul seemed to curl up in himself more, fat tears rolled down his cheeks, "She's dead, Monsieur. She was my life for, how long, ten..eleven years? Monsieur, she was my life and I drank her away. Drank the whole sea up and spit it out between myself and her. She's gone, Monsieur. Gone."  
Erik clenched one of his fists. Raoul was, in his drunken state, pouring out his emotions to him. And Erik had no idea what to do about it. With a bit of immediate regret, Erik knelt down next to Raoul, "Raoul, my old nemesis, you do have a son. You raised him with the most beautiful woman in this life, and in her honor, I will not allow you to waste away and leave him distraught. He needs a father. And before you suggest what you are going to-" Erik touched his mask, "-Gustave deserves more than I." Erik paused, "So, get up. Go to bed. And, be prepared to take care of your child like an adult."  
Raoul stared at Erik for a few moments, "Oh." He licked his lips, which were undoubtedly dry after all that liquor, "I see." Raoul moved to stand, wobbling, and falling back onto his bed.  
Erik nodded once, as Raoul managed to curl up underneath his blankets. Erik closed Raoul's door, making his way back to the chair in which he was sitting earlier.  
That shattering glass may have very well changed Erik's life, as did the gunshot. For better or for worse, the noise that Raoul made that night have way to an odd sort of friendship between the two. One of convenience, really. They both agreed that Gustave needed two parents. Nonverbally, they agreed that they weren't so horrible to be around, without the reason to fight.  
Gustave, by the way, loved bragging to his friends at school about his magical father and his vicomte step-father.


End file.
